


The Original Order of the Phoenix

by KiaraAvalon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: One Shot, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2019-01-19 10:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12409017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiaraAvalon/pseuds/KiaraAvalon
Summary: James' mother, his only remaining family, is murdered and James decides to join the Order of the Phoenix with his friends. Following the dark episodes of the challenges they face, with the fear of death always looming over them...





	The Original Order of the Phoenix

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

They were soldiers. Above all, they were soldiers. It didn't matter that they were only eighteen, barely out of school. It didn't matter that they were children—babies really, look how young they were. They had their whole lives ahead of them. Years of first jobs, of screw-ups, and of resolutions. Years of finding themselves. But they didn't feel like children. No, they haven't felt like that for years, not since that first bullet seared through the sky and swiftly kissed James' widowed mother as she rested in her small house on Godric's Hollow on that serene Sunday morning.

James had lost it then. He'd spent the days after the murder locked in his flat, lights off, curtains shut. He ignored it when Peter owled him, asking if everything was alright, and was there anything he could do to help? He ignored it when Remus sent Patronus after Patronus, the last of which heaved a great sigh and gave an assurance that James was going to make it through, because Remus knew him and he was tough. James had even ignored it when Sirius pounded against his door, demanding entry. He knew Sirius wouldn't push him, that he'd leave him alone after the initial attempt. After all, Sirius too had lost family in the war. He knew what kind of shit that was.

It was only when Lily arrived, when she quietly slipped into his previously locked room—James had forgotten how talented she was at Charms—that progress in any form was made. She found him on the floor, leaning against his one-seat sofa with empty glass bottles of Firewhiskey around him as he listened to the static on Sirius' old broken radio. He didn't protest when she sat on the floor next to him and clicked the TV off wordlessly. He didn't protest when she gently pried his fingers from the remote control he'd been gripping, nor when she took his hand in hers, slowly massaging until the blood rushed back into his pale, white knuckles.

Lily wanted to talk. She said it was unhealthy, keeping these things locked up, that it would only hurt all the more when he finally opened up and accepted the tragedy. James closed his eyes, too tired to argue but resisting the validity of her words all the same. After all, it was going to hurt. Whether or not he spilled his sentiments to her at that moment, some bastard will still have shot his mother during the two months he was away. James will still have lost the only family he had left. So he discarded the content and listened instead to the hum of Lily's words; the low, gentle whispers of support, the melodically mournful tone of her voice; and slowly, she caressed him back to the world of the fully functional.

James decided to join the Order of the Phoenix. Sirius had been suggesting it for months, and even Remus had gradually come to accept the prospect. James had always been reluctant. He still remembered great uncle Theodore's funeral and the associated sense of overwhelming loss. He stood surrounded by strangers, all who were connected by this fallen hero of the Order. Back then, he was among those who hoped for the same better tomorrow, but who were scared to take that first step. James's doubt slipped away with his mother's death. Along with the loss of his only remaining family member was the loss of his childhood, his adolescence, his young-adulthood, and he was left with a sense of hardened maturity, one that spoke to him in its tired voice: "It's time…"

Mad-Eye-Moody was a fifty-something-year old man, with thick hair, a battalion of scars on his face, and a magical eye that whizzed and whirred within its socket. He was a straightforward man; the hardships of battle seemed to have struck an air of frankness about him, and so he took great care in informing them about the reality of life in the Order.

"First thing's first," he said, his voice deep and raspy. "This is no school club. Got that? You're not gaining experience or whatever the hell you think this is. It's not happening, muskets. The pay here is rotten—actually, there is no pay. We don't got the money. And there can't be gloating either, you hear? So don't even think about talking about your Order friends at grandma's next potluck dinner. 'Cause guess what happened to the last idiot who did that? He got killed in his bed.

"But see, the Order symbolizes something much more than money or glory. I'm sure you know that, or else you wouldn't be here. This is a group of people standing up for what they believe in, molding themselves into something greater than they are, to protect their families, and friends. We've got husbands in here, avenging their dead wives. Wives avenging their husbands. Brothers defending brothers, sisters defending sisters. Parents defending kids. And I guess we'd probably have kids defending parents, except we don't take kiddies, they're too young. This group is bigger than you and me and I know we can make a difference here. But that's only if you're all willing to try."

The meeting ended with Moody warning them all to keep their mouths shut, and a reminder that training was to begin on Monday.

At times, James wondered whether it was worth it, especially when they discovered the remains of yet another comrade. It was Peter who introduced these doubts, Peter who still had two parents, both of whom wanted nothing to do with the Order. They were nearing retirement and only desired a few years of quiet happiness. Peter often asked James whether they should simply go along with the masses. It was an easier path, pretending to believe in something you didn't, and besides, it spared the spilling of blood.

But then James would think about the disgrace in that, in relinquishing what they believed in, what they valued. And the only thought that would drive him was that he wouldn't want his own kid to live a life as fucked up as his own. So he kept fighting.

James's platoon became veterans, "old hands" according to Moody; they were ready for combat, ready to secure an area on their own. James learned to use Transfiguration to kill. He made his first kill at twilight, when a sour-faced Death Eater stunned Peter and adjusted his aim for more permanent damage. The night following this first battle, the battle that started off as a peaceful protest, was bitterly quiet. It was something James couldn't erase from his memory: the expression on the man's face when the jet of green light made contact just above his abdomen. James remembered every emotion—the shock, the confusion, the realization of his own mortality. He had nightmares for weeks.

Sirius was James's partner, and every now and then, at the end of a battle, the two of them would stumble back to headquarters hoisting each other up, only to be rushed to St. Mungo's by Madeline. She was the only Healer on their squad.

Lily was the best at Charms. No one else could compare, and whenever she was deployed for a battle, James would curse her talent. He'd wish she hadn't had it, wish that it'd been passed to someone else instead. He was terrified—absolutely terrified—that her accuracy was going to get her killed, as it put her in the heart of the battle. Often, before she left, James would think it was the last time he'd ever see her, the last time he'd ever kiss her, the last time he'd ever fu—

And then he'd give his head a short shake, blink hard and pick up a bottle of Firewhiskey. And he'd drink himself sick until she returned.

Remus was unrivalled in all things strategy. He knew all the ins and outs of politics, could pinpoint a flaw in any plan. He knew the ethics of battle like he did his own mother. So it was with him that James spoke whenever he doubted, whenever he wondered whether what they were doing was right.

"This is blood on our hands, Moony."

"Sometimes, James," Remus would reply, looking up from his book, or his papers, or whatever other intellectual task that held his attention at the moment, "you've got to stand up for what you believe in. Even if it means facing death. We're not in the wrong here."

And he would say some other abstract fatuity that James knew was complete crap, but it still wouldn't fail to reassure.

A few months later, Moody deployed them to the edge of London. That first night at camp, meeting all the squad members, lacked the awkwardness that new meetings usually held. It was as though every stranger was in tune with the rest, everyone's thoughts riding along the same line. Everyone had signed on for the long run, all nineteen of them, and it was implicitly acknowledged that for the next few whenevers, they'd have nothing but the other members of their platoon. So with nothing else, they all did the one thing they knew to do. They fought.

Benjy Fenwick was found dead in the woods one night. His partner for that mission, Sirius, had stumbled by the campfire at three in the morning the night before, a full fourteen hours before he was to return.

"They were expecting us," he choked, clutching his side, and collapsing in the medical tent. "They set up an ambush. Shit, James, I lost Benjy. I barely got away—".

It was the first time James deployed the entire platoon in one go. Even the medics were deployed, except for Madeline, who was to tend to Sirius's wounds. It seemed futile, however, sending the team to search for a captured rebel. The enemy campsite was barren by the time they reached it with the directions they'd received from Sirius. No enemy, no medal-bearing soldiers. No Benjy. James decided it was prudent to send back a few soldiers to guard their own camp. By then, Peter had found Benjy in the forest. Or at least, the bits and pieces of him that were left.

Sirius fell apart that night. James could tell by the way he stared at the fire, his gaze fixed and unwavering, cautious and aware… almost animalistic. When this became a bit unnerving, James told him not to worry, that everything was going to be all right. Empty words, he knew, but he had nothing more to offer. Sirius saw right through that—he told him to fuck off and leave him alone. James did.

When he woke up later that night, Sirius was still by the fire. He was no longer gazing at the flames with that crazed expression. Instead, he was violently smashing bottle after bottle of Firewhiskey into the fire, relishing the shattering clash of glass against kindling, the momentary rage of fire as the flames reached up to consume the alcohol and then retreated, only to repeat the cycle seconds later. James never did learn what Sirius had witnessed that day. They never spoke of the ambush again.

At 5:16 one morning, James and Sirius limped into camp. They were soaked in blood, hoisting between them Sirius's younger brother Regulus, who they'd succeeded in freeing from enemy capture. The entire camp was roused at their arrival, and the sun slowly inched its way up the horizon. James delivered Sirius and his brother to Madeline and found Lily moments later. She had dark rings around her eyes and appeared as though she had not slept all night. James reached for her hand immediately.

"James? Oh, my God…" Lily silently took inventory of his wounds. Her eyes scanned over the slash under his eye, the bruise running down his neck, the bruise running down his neck, the blood dripping from his ear. "Okay… let's find Madeline, alright? We'll get you fixed up. You're going to be fine." She tugged against him gently, and James yielded for a moment before jerking to a stop.

"Wait—I have something to say."

"What? James, it can wait, look at you, you're a mess—"

"No, it can't wait." He took both Lily's hands in his own, and bore his eyes into hers. "Look—this is dangerous."

Lily blinked back tears. "Merlin—you don't think I know that? That's why I'm telling you to go to Madeline!"

"No—Lily, listen. Just—shut up for a minute, okay? This is dangerous. You, me, the guys—we're in war. We're all in war. And look at us—I'm not sure—I don't even know how long we're going to—to be alive—"

"Hey—" Lily's voice came out sharply. She took his face in her hand, shook her own fiercely. "Stop that, James, just stop." James wasn't blinking. His expression was still alert, cautious, aware. "We're fine. Alright? This'll all be over soon, I'm sure of it. We're going to be—"

"Yeah, I know. But listen." He paused then, and for a fearful moment, Lily thought he was going to pass out. But he continued speaking, slowly at first, as though still formulating his thoughts, but then more forcefully, with more conviction, as though the urgency of the war had seeped into every other aspect of their lives. "I want you to… I love you, you know that—"

"—James, you're scaring me—"

"I love you, Lily, I do—"

Lily gave a sob. "God, James—"

"—and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I don't care how short it is—"

Lily swiped furiously at her eyes and gave a jerky nod of agreement.

"—we both agreed to fight, and we're both too stubborn to do otherwise. But no goddamn war's going to stop me from doing this—alright? No, listen—marry me. Marry me, Lily."

"James—you're not seri—"

"—yeah, I am. Marry me. Will you?"

Lily gave another sob as she wiped at her eyes and nodded wordlessly.

James blinked. "Really?"

Lily gave a short laugh. "Yes, you prat, I'll marry you." And then she was sobbing and laughing, her tears and his blood mingling as they came together. Tears were shed for the state of warfare they faced, yet laughter rang for the familiar happiness they thought they'd never experience again.

When James smiled then, it was almost as though he were in perfect health. As though the blood dripping down his face, across his arms, his torso, had all been wiped away. As though the scrapes and scars, and the bruises and burns of the war they did and did not support, had lost their own war against a greater state of health. It was almost, _almost_ as though everything was okay again.

James and Lily were married at camp.

Lily was the most optimistic. She was the only one with a bit of faith—she even used to go to church before the civil war, a fact that impressed much of the platoon. It was no wonder, then, that whenever they heard news, any turn of events, she was the most hopeful. She never considered the possibility of bad news until it happened. When they found out Remus had been attacked by a pack of the enemy's hounds, Lily was thankful he was still alive. When they found out that Sirius's brother, Regulus, had moved to the other side of the war, had been tempted by the army to fight against the Order, Lily insisted that they didn't need his half-arsed help anyway. When Oliver departed the Order to try to live in peace with his six-year old daughter after the murder of his wife, Lily was confident that it was the right decision to let him go—the Order was not like the army they fought, demanding the service of soldiers who were unwilling to give it.

James often couldn't believe how she could be so hopeful, especially since nothing ever worked out for them. A part of him wanted to tell her to quit it, like Sirius always did. She wasn't going to will anything to be better by speaking of absurd hope. They were screwed, and she knew it. The army was picking them off one by one—first Benjy, then Gideon and Fabian, Marlene, then Maurice. And finally Regulus.

Still, another part of James, a slightly greater part, hoped that Lily would never stop, almost as though the only thing that kept him going everyday was the fact that she was still fighting. And so he fought.

It was Remus who presented the possibility of betrayal, as they sat around the campfire in their nightly routine, passing around a bottle of Hogsmeade's finest.

"One of us," said Remus, taking a deep swig and passing it to Alice on his right. "One of us is a traitor."

An ominous silence followed. Everybody glanced fearfully at everybody else.

"That's not possible," insisted James. "Nobody here would betray us."

"Somebody did," said Remus. His voice sounded old and broken, aged with the harsh wisdom that'd been forced down his throat the past few years. "There's no other explanation. Last night, we should have won. Our plan was _perfect_ , James, and today we were supposed to be free. But we're not. And only the people who knew that Dorcas was moonlighting as one of them are the people sitting here. So how'd they find her position? Huh? Somebody betrayed us last night. And we lost Dorcas because of it."

The rest of the night consisted of uncertainty, of glaring and of a great deal of fear. It was unnerving, the knowledge that they shared a campsite, perhaps even a tent, with a potential traitor. They shared living space with Dorcas' killer, disguised as one of them, reeking with the aura of betrayal.

James never did discover who the traitor was.

A year later, the war came to an abrupt end. James's platoon, confused and disoriented, was sent back into the city in an attempt to give its members a final chance at a life of peace.

James and Lily moved into a home in Godric's hollow. It was a small one; they couldn't afford anything particularly grand, and James used the money his great uncle Theodore left him, and the money his parents left him, to pay the rent. He took a small job with Moody at the Auror department and Lily worked with the Daily Prophet until she was faced with a greater responsibility: she gave birth to a baby boy the following year.

James and Lily transitioned into a life of bland regularity. They went grocery shopping every week, kept doubles of Chocolate Frog cards lying around the apartment, and de-gnomed their garden whenever they could. They even received the odd owl from Sirius, who was in Minsk one week and in Milan the next. It was almost as though the life they'd led only years earlier, was a dream, mere wisps of realistic nightmares.

But they were still soldiers. This never stopped being true. Even when Lily went shopping at her bargain discount stores in Diagon Alley, and violently shoved various customers out of the way to grab a pair of robes she wanted, they were soldiers. Even when, during the year their son Harry turned one, James and Lily were found dead in their home, they were soldiers. And even when Sirius cornered Peter on an open street, confronted him, roaring of betrayal and the murder of his best friends, they were soldiers.

Because they would always be soldiers. Soldiers falling down under the pale moonlight. 


End file.
